


Force My Hand

by thegreatpumpkin



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bad Ending, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-04-28 02:04:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14439126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: The worst timeline is the one where everyone lives.The Second Kinslaying is avoided. The consequences are felt in every corner of Arda thereafter.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiveOakWithMoss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/gifts).



> _Ain't going back to Barton Hollow_   
>  _Devil gonna follow me e'er I go_   
>  _Won't do me no good washing in the river_   
>  _Can't no preacher man save my soul_
> 
> _Did that full moon force my hand?_   
>  _Or that unmarked hundred grand?_   
>  _Ooh, underneath the water_   
>  _Please forgive me father_
> 
> —The Civil Wars, Barton Hollow

  
  


~

“It's an _ambush_ ,” Celegorm grumbled, for approximately the fiftieth time. He was at the back of the procession of brothers, largely so that he could glance suspiciously over his shoulder every few seconds.

“Repeat yourself one more time and I will ambush you and save the Doriathrim the trouble.” Curufin did not even turn around to address him. Maedhros did, though, to give them both a quelling glare.

Celegorm drew in closer to hiss against Curufin's ear. “I'll stop repeating it when one of you fools damn well listens.”

Curufin still did not turn to look, though he lowered his voice to continue the argument without Maedhros’ interference. “This is politics. I don’t expect you to understand, given it’s not the hunt or the battlefield, but do shut up and leave it to those of us who know what we are doing.”

“Enlighten me, then. Why do you believe that Luthien’s son—Thingol’s grandson—would treat with us? When have any of the Sindar ever recognized our claims to Father’s work?”

“When it is _convenient_ to them. Now, for instance,” Curufin murmured with finality. It might not have worked, but they had come into Menegroth’s hall and Celegorm was too distracted assessing it for threats to continue.

Thingol’s grandson sat in a throne at the focal point of the hall, his expression remarkably like what Celegorm’s would have been if transposed onto a Sinda face. He clearly did not like his guests, did not trust them, and wished to have this unfortunately necessary business concluded as swiftly as possible.

Well, at least everyone was on the same page.

Celegorm didn’t make any sort of snide comment about their host himself, which was...suspicious. Curufin cut his eyes sideways to study him; he did not know how to read his brother’s keenly focused expression, and did not like it.

“He’s Luthien’s son, sure enough,” Celegorm said when he caught him looking, with a slight curl of his lip.

Curufin’s jaw tightened.

“Maedhros Feanorion.” Eluchil’s voice rang out, nearly as resonant as Maglor’s was, though with a slight husky edge that again spoke of his mother’s blood. “I cannot say you are welcome in my hall, but you are welcome to remove your cursed stone. That is the best hospitality I may offer.”

Celegorm made a noise low in his throat, and the fact that Curufin couldn’t tell whether it was admiring or outraged made his jaw clench harder still.

Maedhros had played the diplomat in far worse situations than this, and gave his response with grave courtesy. “I thank you for that even so, King of Doriath. We are happy to take our property and leave you in peace.”

“Quite.” Eluchil smiled mirthlessly; Celegorm twitched, and Curufin ground his teeth. The Sinda king made a gesture to his left, and a manservant approached with a small wooden casket. At the king’s nod, he approached Maedhros—somewhat warily, it must be said—and held it up for him to examine. Maedhros lifted the latch and raised the lid.

In truth, it had been a very long time since any of them had laid eyes on their father’s creations, and the sight of it was something of a shock. Even Celegorm laid off his tense contemplation of Eluchil to appreciate it.

Maedhros reached to take the jewel from its niche. The light of it glowed even through the solidity of his remaining hand, undimmed by a shade so inadequate as mere flesh. His fingers closed around it for the briefest of moments; then he dropped it, with a bitten-off curse, shaking out his hand like he’d been stung.

Celegorm’s sword was out nearly before the Silmaril touched its bed again, Caranthir and Curufin drawing only a hair slower. Somehow, though, Maedhros managed to speak before the situation slid sideways into _completely irretrievable._

“ _Stand down_.” His voice held something terrible and compelling. It would have given anyone pause, but his brothers found it particularly familiar: he had often sounded like that, fell and unsettling, when freshly returned from captivity in the Enemy’s stronghold.

Every one of them froze.

There was silence in the hall for a moment, the tension hanging heavy as the chandeliers. Eluchil had not moved, still comfortable in his seat, watching the proceedings with a detached sort of interest, but his guards were visibly ready for a fight if it should come.

“Stand down,” Maedhros said again, more quietly. “The King has honored his agreement. Now we must honor ours and be gone.” He motioned to Maglor, who stepped forward smoothly and took the casket from the servant. After another beat, Caranthir and Curufin sheathed their weapons again; Celegorm did too, after a pointed look from Maglor, with only a bit of muttered dissent.

It seemed impossible, that they could simply withdraw. But there was no attack at their backs as they turned them to leave; no blades waiting outside when they were escorted from the hall, or indeed, when they were escorted out of Menegroth itself. Some superstition, the fear of breaking some spell, kept them from speaking for most of that time.

Maglor, of course, was the one to break it, though even he kept silent for far longer than he was usually able.

“Well,” he said with an air of satisfied surprise, “that went far better than it could have.”

“No.”

It was easy, sometimes, to forget that Ambarussa was among them; he spoke so rarely these days, and often seemed to be somewhere else entirely, though he did well enough with a blade in his hand. The others turned to regard him in surprise at the word, as startled as if the Silmaril itself had spoken. His eyes were clearer than they had been in ages, bright and aware, though his expression was as blankly neutral as ever.

“It could hardly have gone worse,” he said, and then would say no more, seeming to have gone away again into his own mind when they tried to question him.

Curufin saw, though, how his gaze sharpened again when the rest had stopped paying him any mind. He followed Ambarussa’s eyes to Celegorm’s back, and felt a chill he couldn’t trace.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoping to have a fairly quick update schedule on this one, but we'll see!

“It only makes sense that I should be the jewel’s guardian,” Curufin was saying. “I’m the only one of us that took up Father’s craft. I can’t see why there should be any…”

Celegorm paid him very little attention, busy giving most of it to the long-limbed hound sprawling over his lap, ruffling its ears and giving it a good scratch along the ridge of its spine. “Mm-hmm.”

Curufin eyed him narrowly. “You will back me, won’t you? Not that it should be necessary.”

“Mm-hmm.” The hound nearly bowled him over.

Curufin tried another tack. “The dog’s not sharing a tent with us, by the way. Huan was bad enough, but these brainless beasts are another matter entirely.”

Celegorm did look at him now, deeply unamused. “I said I would back you. You don’t need to remind me of betrayals best forgotten.”

“No betrayal is best forgotten.” Curufin added a piece of wood to the fire. “Especially not that one. Is that why you were so hot and heavy on the Sinda today? You’ve forgotten how things went last time you threw yourself at that line?”

“Victory puts you in a foul mood, apparently.” Celegorm kissed the dog between its ears and pushed it off his lap, rising to join his brother, invading his personal space in the cheerfully threatening way only Celegorm could. “As I recall, you were the one encouraging me last time. And I think you’re mistaking bloodlust for the other kind. I can’t pretend I wasn’t itching to take him to bloody, miserable pieces.”

“Try again,” Curufin snapped. “I know well enough that rage and desire are practically the same thing in your blood.”

Celegorm looped an arm over his shoulders, in a way that could easily turn into a headlock if he was willing to risk Curufin’s temper. “We’ve reclaimed a Silmaril, and you’re out of joint because I looked the wrong way at a useless Sinda half-breed?” He showed teeth in something just a shade darker than a grin. “Take it out of my hide, if it will improve your mood. To be honest, I thought you’d have me up against a tree in celebration the moment we got out of company.”

Curufin made a disgusted noise, trying to shove him off and not making much headway. “Do you ever think about anything besides killing and fucking? It grows tiresome, listening to you go on.”

“Hmm,” Celegorm said, managing to convey a great deal of skepticism in a single close-mouthed syllable. “You don’t keep me for my conversation, anyway.”

“Indeed I do not—” Curufin started, then made a sound of outrage as Celegorm spun around, body-checked him, and used his surprise to bend down and throw Curufin over his shoulder. The dog leapt to its feet, whole body wagging with excitement at whatever this new game was, and Curufin seriously considered putting a knife through some non-essential part of his brother.

“Go lie down,” Celegorm told the hound firmly, then carried Curufin to the tent.

“I will _end_ you,” Curufin said venomously, as Celegorm threw him down into the bedroll.

“Perhaps,” Celegorm returned, unperturbed, “but we’re going to celebrate first.”

~

“What _was_ that?” Maglor asked Maedhros, when their brothers were well out of earshot. “Some sort of flashback?”

“Yes,” Maedhros said, shortly. “I dropped the stone and showed weakness before Doriath’s court because it brought up bad memories. No, of course not, try it for yourself.”

Maglor had been waiting for the opportunity; all the better that Maedhros thought it his idea. He opened the casket, drawing a breath even now as it came into view. For all they had changed, all they had gone through, looking at it still made him feel as if he were a child again in Tirion. He was already halfway into a melody line about it, full of yearning and the smell of greenery from springs long past. But that could wait.

He picked it up. Instantly, his skin burned—not like the pain of a fire, but rather of acid or bile, multiplied a thousandfold. He dropped the jewel as quickly as Maedhros had, and with far less dignity, swearing like their mother in the throes of a creative slump.

Maedhros nodded, more to himself than to Maglor. “The hallowing,” he said, matter-of-factly, and after a moment Maglor understood what he meant.

“Then—none of us will be able to—?”

“I doubt it.” Maedhros’ affect was flat, his expression resigned, but Maglor did not believe it. He of anyone knew how, even after all this time, Maedhros tried to do right; if not to wipe away the sins of their past, then at least to avoid compounding them, making the difficult choice of diplomacy over and over again even as their brothers burned bridges and alliances both.

He had known, of course, that they were damned; he might be bleakly optimistic, but he wasn’t stupid. Still, to have confirmation—Maglor knew it must be a devastating blow.

“We have it in our hands, painful or no,” he said, putting on a smile, because he still could. “It wasn’t for nothing, all of this. We have reclaimed part of Father’s legacy, at last. Maybe the Oath will let us rest for a time, before we must find new ways to chase the two that remain.”

“I doubt that too,” said Maedhros, but he gave the conciliatory grimace he thought looked like a smile, so that Maglor would know he was trying.

~

Caranthir and Ambarussa did not speak. They kept watch, sitting back to back in the dark, listening for the sounds of pursuit or ambush.

When Ambarussa began to shiver—these days he was hardly conscious of his own needs—Caranthir rose and brought him a blanket. It was knitted of thick wool, the kind from the gravity-defying goats that had been so plentiful on the sheer faces and outcroppings of Himring.

All of that was lost now, nothing left of Himring but a blanket and a few scarves. They had so little of anything left.

But, Caranthir thought as he draped the blanket around Ambarussa’s shoulders, for the first time in a very long time—he had the slightest morsel of hope.


	3. Chapter 3

Back in Ossiriand, the Sons of Feanor clustered around the small round table, looking like a strange family portrait. 

Maedhros and Curufin sat, Maedhros like a weary soldier and Curufin straight and prim as a magistrate. Caranthir _had_ been sitting, but he never could stay that way long when a contentious subject was brought up, any more than he could keep his voice down. Maglor stood at Maedhros’ shoulder, one hand on the back of his chair; Celegorm, of course, had perched himself on the arm of Curufin’s, with his feet propped on the seat Caranthir had abandoned.

Ambarussa knelt beside the table, his nose inches from the Silmaril, studying it with intense focus. None of the rest paid him any mind.

“I’m the only smith among us. It is ludicrous,” Curufin was saying, “to suggest that any one of you even knows how to _store_ it properly.”

“Yes, it’s clearly extremely fragile,” Caranthir snapped back. “All that time in Morgoth’s possession is nothing to our future mishandling.”

“It’s Father’s work, of course it isn’t fragile. That doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be stored and handled with the care that a masterwork deserves! Anyway, all other things being equal, I can create an appropriate setting, now that it’s been prised out of that garish collar—” Curufin gave Celegorm a warning look before he had the chance to interject anything about how much he’d liked that ‘garish’ collar on one of its former owners— “You must see that I am the most appropriate heir to this particular legacy of Father’s.”

Caranthir snarled. “I see that you’re a—”

“Now, Moryo. Let us disagree without stooping to petty insults,” Maglor interjected, in the voice which he liked to use to smooth things over, and which always had precisely the opposite effect on his brothers. “No one is questioning your skills, Curufinwe. But historically, you must acknowledge that little good has come to its wearers. It doesn’t _need_ to be set, because none of us are going to tempt fate further by wearing it on our persons.”

Curufin sneered at him. “Of course you would think so.”

Maglor’s eyebrow lifted, which was his way of pretending to be cool and unaffected when he was incensed. “What do you mean by that?”

“You’ve done everything you can to keep people from remembering that you’re our father’s son. One of us wearing it openly...that would certainly destroy your carefully-maintained distance, wouldn’t it?”

Celegorm sat up from his sprawl, putting his hand on Curufin’s arm in a way that said he’d gone too far; Caranthir leaned angrily over the table, shouting at him across it before Maglor had time to respond.

“You’re not more loyal than the rest of us just because you try to be him in miniature! And you are him in _miniature_ , by the way, because you’re not half what he was—”

“Enough!” Maedhros spoke over them, before Celegorm leapt up and turned the whole thing into a brawl. “We swore the Oath as one, and we fulfill it as one. I have put it in Kanafinwe’s hands, but it is not any less ours for that.”

“Ambarussa? Dear heart?” Maglor said suddenly, interrupting whatever furious retort Curufin was about to deliver. They all paused, turning to see what had caught his attention.

Ambarussa had taken the Silmaril from its case and was now trading it hand to hand, idly, as one might fidget with a worry stone.

There was a long, deeply surprised silence. Maedhros had told them about the problem of the hallowing—Curufin had even tested it, though neither Caranthir nor Celegorm felt the need, and Ambarussa had not seemed to pay any attention to the discussion.

“Is he not—” Curufin started to say at last, but Caranthir had already caught Ambarussa by the wrist, turning the hand not currently holding the gem palm-up so they could see.

Angry blisters were already beginning to form.

“ _Pityafinwe,_ ” Maglor said sharply, in the tone that usually cut through his youngest brother’s fog. “ _Put it down_.”

Ambarussa’s head snapped up, his gaze sharp on Maglor. He twisted his wrist in a quick, efficient motion to break Caranthir’s hold; then—with all the insolence that can be conveyed through posture and movement and expressionless, uncomfortably-direct eye contact—cupped the gem in both hands, lifted them high above the jewel case, and then parted them with theatrical exaggeration to let the Silmaril drop with a loud thump back into its velvet-lined depression.

Maglor sighed the sigh of the deeply put-upon, pinched the bridge of his nose in a way that presaged the very dramatic headache he was no doubt getting ready to complain of. Maedhros didn’t wait for it, leaning forward to close and latch the jewel case before one of them did anything else foolish. 

“We’ll need to put it about that the first of our father’s stones is back in our hands. It will strengthen the faith of those who still follow us, and if we are very careful and very lucky, win back the faith of some who have already turned away.” His eyes flicked to Curufin, who was no doubt formulating an objection. “We have few enough friends left, we will not dismiss those who once doubted just for pride’s sake. Kanafinwe is the best at winning people over, and he will need to do it with the proof of our claims as well as all the art he possesses. He will keep it for now, and speak for all the sons of Feanor. That is my final word.”

Maglor pressed his lips together, a smug not-quite-smile, while the rest glowered. “Like all the best compromises, no one is happy.” It was a lie, of course, given he had precisely what he wanted; but there was something darker than simple happiness in his eyes. Something nearly... _manic_.

Curufin and Caranthir did not see it, too busy fuming. Celegorm did not see it either, too busy watching Curufin. Maedhros had already risen to go.

Ambarussa, though—Ambarussa stared. Leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, insolent again and staring until Maglor had to look away, not entirely sure to what challenge he’d just conceded defeat.


	4. Chapter 4

“Well?” Celegorm strode in and dropped his cloak over a chair, then draped himself across Curufin’s shoulders. “I’m tired of waiting. Tell me your plan.”

Curufin managed to seem very disinterested for someone who had just shoved a particularly suspicious-looking sketch beneath a pile of more innocuous paperwork. “What are you on about?”

“I’ve given you an entire week, which ought to be more than enough time for your twisty, crafty little mind.” Celegorm had a long reach, and plucked the page out before Curufin could stop him. Smith-work, of course, a variety of sketches of bracelets and necklaces and circlets; nothing at all unusual in that, except they all featured a singular, very specifically-shaped stone. “Ha! Thought so.”

Curufin snatched it back with icy dignity, smoothing the paper with a sour expression. “Eventually, Nelyo will come to understand that it should not be kept hidden away in a box. I simply wish to have the best setting drawn up and ready for when he asks.”

“Of course.” Celegorm tugged his braid. “And that ‘eventually’ will come sooner if you’re the one holding on to it. Am I wrong?” The corner of Curufin’s mouth quirked just slightly, and Celegorm nodded with satisfaction. “So tell me. What do you need me to do?”

“Even if I had some plan, why do you assume I would need your aid to carry it out?” Curufin’s tone was faintly amused.

“You asked me to back you before. Am I to believe you thought I’d be any use in arguing Nelyo around?” Celegorm snorted. “No. You wanted to have me as an assurance, in case your clever tongue wasn’t sufficient.”

Curufin stood slowly, turning to face him, and wrapped arms around his neck, drawing him close in a way that Celegorm knew better than to trust. “What are you offering?” His smile was pleased but cruel. “Are you so eager to betray our brothers for my sake?”

Celegorm’s expression closed off, but he met Curufin’s gaze steadily. “It’s no betrayal, unless you’ve revised your stance on being the one of us with the most reason to hold the Silmaril. Does it not serve all of us to put it in the hands of the most qualified?”

“Pretty,” said Curufin, leaning in till their noses were nearly touching. “I might suspect you’ve been practicing oratory, but you know I am not interested in how well you can equivocate. _Would_ you?”

Celegorm understood the question, vague though it was. “Don’t push me. You know I will take my part in your plan, whatever it may be.” He scowled and stepped away, reaching for the cloak he’d just discarded, trying to pretend that wasn’t an answer.

Curufin caught his wrist and strode forward, boxing him in against the door.

“I mean it, Curvo. Don’t push me.” Celegorm laid a hand lightly against Curufin’s chest in warning—he could step back voluntarily, or else be pushed.

Curufin ignored it, laying his own hand over Celegorm’s and smiling darkly. “Loyalty should be rewarded, Tyelkormo. Father always said so.”

_And disloyalty weeded out._ Celegorm sighed and let his head fall back against the door, growling lowly as Curufin pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You will be the ruin of me.”

Still, he did not try to escape, just as Curufin did not try to deny it.

~

Celegorm set out the next morning, thinking to bring home a hart for the supper table; whether there was a note of guilty conscience in the making of that plan was up for speculation. He took a hound and his bow and spear, leaving before the sun had burned off the morning mist.

It was not too long after that he knew he was being followed.

Skillfully, but Celegorm had known the woods across ages and continents, and knew how to listen to what they were telling him. He made no indication that he was aware; after all, he had a good idea what manner of beast it was, and it posed no threat to him at all. 

It was hardly a surprise when, perhaps an hour after leaving the bounds of civilization, Ambarussa made his presence known. Well, hardly a surprise that he was the follower—it had been long years since he joined Celegorm on a hunt, so that was unexpected if not unwelcome. He looked much as he once had, more focused and present with a bow in hand, and Celegorm could almost pretend it was the happier time those memories belonged to.

_These are happy times_ , he told himself, and maybe even believed it. _Our fortunes are changing._

To Ambarussa, he said nothing, only whistled the simple bird call they had once used to signal one another— _what’s your status?_

Ambarussa smiled without looking at him and whistled another one. _All clear here._ It was as sudden, and as unexpected, as the rare times when he spoke—Celegorm did not dare to stare, though, in case his brother took notice and spooked.

The silence between them was comfortable, not strained or stifling as it would have been in their brothers’ company. The day was fine, and the hound caught a trail early in the hunt; they worked together as seamlessly as though no time had passed since their last shared hunt. 

Ambarussa seemed more present than he ever did, and Celegorm tried to appreciate it for what it was, instead of hoping. They didn’t speak, but occasionally Ambarussa mimicked other bird calls; not as communication, but because it seemed to please him to do so. Celegorm smiled at the sounds, though he could not mimic them so well himself anymore.

They brought down a stag before midday. Ambarussa helped prepare it for carrying, but once Celegorm had hoisted the deer onto his broad shoulders, he turned to find no one there but the hound. 

That was not too great of a surprise either—Ambarussa came and went as he liked, and he had learned to move through the woods at Celegorm’s own knee. In a way it was reassuring. After all they had come through, despite the ways they had all torn one another and the world apart, there was still one brother who did not require anything from him—not even a goodbye.

Maybe he would see him at supper and maybe not; maybe Ambarussa would not be so lucid again for weeks or months. Either way, Celegorm felt vaguely blessed, the way he always had when a bird or beast first decided he was not an enemy and let him near.

It lightened his burden a bit.

“Come on, pup,” he said, starting off towards home, as the dog chased his heels and then streaked past to explore the path ahead. “Day’s wasting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets worse after this, y'all, so buckle up.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to take a minute to note here--this chapter is really rough. I've added the Major Character Death warning, which I stupidly left off when originally tagging this work. It's relevant in this chapter and will continue to be relevant--I really wasn't kidding when I said this was the worst timeline. If you're feeling fragile today, maybe wait on this one. Seriously. You've been warned.

“And he isn’t with the horses, which is where he usually goes when he’s not all together—Kano. _Kano_ , are you listening to me?”

Maglor’s fingers stilled on the lute-strings, and he looked up, gaze somewhat abstracted. “Of course, my dear. Ambarussa isn’t with the horses. Go on.”

Caranthir made a frustrated sound. “I’m not his care-taker. Why isn’t anyone else concerned?”

“He is an adult, after all,” Maglor mused. “An adult who frequently goes missing, and turns up again hale and whole.”

“ _Not from me_ ,” Caranthir snapped. “He doesn’t go missing from where I know to look. Or without being...strange for a few days first. There are warning signs, he doesn’t just _go._ ”

“Pityafinwe—”

“Say Ambarussa, you know he hates—”

“ _Our brother,_ ” Maglor allowed, in the humoring tone that also managed to suggest someone was being very silly, “may not be entirely well, but there is little in Ossiriand he couldn’t defend himself against. If he’s gone somewhere, I am sure it is at his own will, and he will come back. Maybe he’s hunting with Tyelkormo—the kennel-master said he left before dawn.”

Caranthir scowled. “His hands aren’t even fully healed! And besides, he _doesn’t_ hunt with Tyelko anymore, or have you forgotten?” He made a grim motion at the jewel case sitting on Maglor’s desk. “ _That_ doesn’t undo everything, you know. We don’t all just go back to how we used to be, because of a stone.”

“More than a simple stone,” Maglor said, without reproof, and Caranthir shrugged.

“Obviously. I’m not sorry to have it. But it doesn’t fix what was already broken.”

Maglor smiled at him, sad and soft. “I am aware. But we can begin to rebuild.” He set the lute aside, clasping his hands in his lap and leaning forward. “If Tyelkormo comes home and has not seen him, then we will mount a search. But until then, let us give him the benefit of the doubt. Yes?”

Caranthir crossed his arms, looking as if he was deciding whether to argue. Maglor redirected him smoothly. “You said there was something you wanted to speak privately about?”

That turned his attention effectively enough. “Curvo,” he said grimly. “He’s planning something, you know he is. And whatever he’s up to, Tyelkormo will be in it too. I tried to tell Nelyo, but—”

Maglor nodded, still smiling his rueful smile. “Nelyo does tend to think the best of people, doesn’t he? Even those who may not have earned it.”

“Yes!” Caranthir started to say, triumphantly, “We have to make sure they—”

“But you don’t need to concern yourself with it,” Maglor continued, speaking over top of him. “Curufinwe’s arrogance is his undoing, you know that. They’ll fall into line soon enough.” His expression grew somewhat dreamy. “It’s only a brief deviation in the larger story, never fear. They’ll try something and be rebuffed, and then—then we shall all be truly united in purpose, as we have not been since the early days. We’ll come out stronger for it, you’ll see.” He beamed and made a graceful gesture that had no particular meaning, but would have played well on a stage. “ _Do_ you see, Moryo? This is the beginning of it all. The foundation of our great triumph. We _will_ claim all of our father’s gems, in time. It is fated. We _must_.”

“Save the speeches for our followers.” Caranthir was not at all satisfied with _that_ answer, but Maglor could be unnerving when he got into a composing mood. He decided, with no small amount of irritation, to go back to looking for Ambarussa for now; he could broach the topic of Curufin again on the morrow, when Maglor was feeling less aggressively poetic. “Never mind, I don’t know why I bother.”

Maglor waited till he was nearly out the door, then clucked his tongue softly, shaking his head. “No, you don’t see, I suppose. But you will. I promise you will.”

~

Celegorm marked the location of each of his brothers in the crowd. Maedhros, of course, at the head of things, little though he wanted to be there. Caranthir had been surly all afternoon, especially when he found out that Ambarussa had been hunting with Celegorm, and now was deep in his cups and inward-focused. Ambarussa himself had not come to dinner, but that was not unusual.

Curufin was beside him, to all appearances still in the sulk he’d been nursing since Maedhros had shut down the topic of the Silmaril changing hands. Celegorm knew better, but he was reasonably certain no one else did.

And Maglor—Maglor was right where he ought to be. He had taken up his harp as soon as supper had begun winding down; he’d been doing that more often, lately. Whether it was in service to Maedhros’ request that he apply his skills to winning over friends and followers, or simply that the fickle muse Maglor claimed to live in the thrall of was pleased by their change in fortunes, Celegorm could not guess and did not particularly care to.

What mattered was that the performance had just begun, and knowing their brother, he’d be at it for hours yet.

Their exit was easy enough to contrive. After all, Celegorm had been needling Curufin all night regardless, because he could never help himself when Curufin was in a sour mood—either he’d shake him out of it, or bring him to the inevitable explosion faster, but either way it sped things along. Even when the mood was a front, he could not help it.

So it was easy enough, now, to push things a little too far, make a comment that gave Curufin cause to stand up and storm out.

Easier still to chase after him, ostensibly to make his apologies and soothe Curufin’s temper—after all, such a scene between them was nearly as common and predictable as the length of Maglor’s performances.

“Nicely done,” Curufin murmured, when he’d caught him up in the corridor and they were alone. “Though it worries me to think that you may finally have learned subtlety.”

“I could have told you from the start that beasts learn better with treats than beatings,” Celegorm said, though the grin he gave was more feral than domesticated.

“I’ll be sure to toss you the bones from my supper next time,” Curufin said dryly.

“That’s not the bone I’m—” Curufin’s sharp elbow drove directly into his stomach, cutting off the comment a beat too late; Celegorm laughed, wheezily, and it was a sign of Curufin’s true mood that he nearly smiled himself.

“I have to fetch a few things from my workshop. Occupy yourself for a few minutes.” Curufin looked him over, then added, with the slightest quirk of his mouth— “ _Subtly_ , if you can manage.”

Since the most in-character way for him to occupy himself was getting in his brother’s way, he did that, exasperated though it made Curufin. Still, they had collected Curufin’s _few things_ (a pair of insulated leather work gloves and a less ornate jewel-box that, unlike the Silmaril’s current container, had a lock) and were on their way quickly enough.

The corridor outside Maglor’s quarters was deserted, though Celegorm applied his hunter’s senses to making sure that didn’t change as Curufin opened the lock. He’d built it, of course, and had an extra set of keys; still, it would look a little suspicious, him letting himself in while Maglor was busy elsewhere.

The antechamber was full of the usual artistic detritus: music notation sprawling half-finished over so many sheets of parchment, instruments and their accoutrements stacked here and there. Sashes and clasps and too-flashy jewelry, dropped on side tables instead of put away in their proper places. His harp stood in pride of place, the only instrument on a proper stand.

Curufin started towards the bedroom, then turned and made an impatient gesture at Celegorm. “Go keep watch,” he hissed. “You won’t do me any good lurking in here.”

As if he couldn’t hear someone approaching from inside. He supposed Curufin did have some point, though—he could do more to distract and misdirect anyone that might approach if he were in the corridor. He strolled out to slouch against the wall a little ways from Maglor’s now-closed door, just far enough that he wouldn’t look _immediately_ guilty to anyone who came through, and gave half his attention to playing with one of the daggers concealed about his person while the other half stayed alert for trouble.

There was none. The minutes ticked by, and no one came or went. Celegorm could wait hours in perfect stillness on the hunt, but waiting fifteen minutes for Curufin to search their brother’s room was somehow agonizingly boring. His mind wandered.

Curufin had been certain the Silmaril would be in the bedroom, and Celegorm usually trusted his instincts about other people’s secrets. But something was bothering him about the antechamber—had something been obviously out of place? Was there a spot it might have been instead?

He was being foolish, of course; Curufin’s attention to detail had always been exponentially better than his own. If there was something to see, he’d surely seen it. Maybe that was what he was doing now, searching the antechamber, and in another minute he would be—

Celegorm realized, in a sudden flash of memory: Maglor’s harp, in Maglor’s hands, as he played for the supper crowd. Maglor’s harp, the _same_ harp, sitting on its stand. _Maglor—_

He was inside before he knew he had moved, crossing through the antechamber at speed to give a warning, knocking aside the gauzy impractical curtains that Maglor had chosen in lieu of a bedroom door.

His caution came too late. Maglor was there, between Curufin and the door, his back to Celegorm; Curufin had the Silmaril’s box cradled possessively beneath his arm, and was clearly trying—failing—to talk his way out without relinquishing it. Neither of them seemed to notice Celegorm had come in.

“You are wasting the opportunity, all of you. Do you know how much we can _learn_ by studying it? Or rather, _I_ can learn—I hardly expect you to know what you’re looking at. Spin your stories, by all means, but in the meantime let me do what our father would have wanted most and _learn from it_.”

“In the _meantime_?” Maglor laughed, and the sound was wrong-edged; the back of Celegorm’s neck tightened. “Everyone knows how well you relinquish something you think is yours by right, Curufinwe. No, there's no _meantime_. You come here a thief in the dark because you know you cannot challenge Maedhros outright—” The sound of Maedhros’ Sindarin name in Maglor’s mouth was strange, discordant, like a fire bell ringing out in the middle of a symphony. “—and you think it will be easier to hold it once it is in your possession.”

“I _think_ ,” said Curufin, who did not seem to believe himself as badly outmaneuvered as he was, “that you are too tied up in your own mythos to see that it has a _practical_ use. A practical use that only I can manage, which is a _far_ better application for it than collecting dust in your boudoir simply to feed your muse and Nelyo's propaganda machine.”

“It isn’t _yours_ , Curvo.” Maglor had switched to his cajoling, placating big-brother voice, but it too was _wrong_ in some terrible way. “I know it is difficult when you can’t see everything laid out before you yet, but try to understand. While I hold it, it belongs to all of us—not just us, but our people as well. It becomes again the great treasure of the Noldor, and will inspire great deeds. If you were to hold it—well, many would remember the ills you have done our cousins. Leaving it in your possession would seem a declaration that we value only ourselves.”

Even Celegorm, hasty to act and quick to anger, could have told him that was the worst way to de-escalate the situation. Curufin was practically spitting with anger now, forgetting entirely that he was trying to be persuasive. “So you will be like our traitorous uncle, then, letting fools and indecisive moderates guide your decisions. If our father had done as much, we would still be on the far shores, begging the Valar for forgiveness—”

“Put it down and go.” The false sweetness dropped abruptly from Maglor’s voice. It was replaced by...nothing, an odd tonelessness, a frankly un-Maglor-like lack of emotion that set Celegorm's alarm bells clanging louder than ever.

Curufin always considered it a victory, Celegorm knew, when his opponent stopped offering new arguments. “You don’t deny it. He would be ashamed of the way you—”

“Put it down and go,” Maglor said again, still toneless, though there was a strange pull that felt to Celegorm uncomfortably like the songs of power Maglor wielded in battle. He wasn’t holding anything but his knife, and he _still_ felt a strange compulsion to drop it and remove himself from the room.

Curufin did not seem affected. He was sneering now, intending to anger rather than to persuade. “Or what? You’ll have big brother Nelyo throw me in the dungeons? We don’t have those anymore in our reduced circumstances, in case you’ve forgotten. And besides, if he welcomed us back into the bosom of the family after what Artaresto claimed we did in Nargothrond, he will hardly throw me out for such a minor misunderstanding.” He showed his teeth, more threat than smile, and Celegorm wondered in despair whether Curufin had learned that from him. “You have nothing. You talk well enough, Kano, but what do you do when that stops working? Will you hold me down and pry it from my fingers like when we were children?”

Maglor drew his sword. 

Celegorm felt like he was suddenly underwater, sight distorted and sounds traveling from somewhere very far away.

Curufin was laughing nastily, saying something goading, but Celegorm could not understand the words through his fog. All he could focus on was the sudden shift and tension in Maglor’s muscles, the faint shift of his footing, the pull in his shoulder that presaged a strike. The thousand tiny prickles all along Celegorm’s skin, saying: _he is not himself_.

He waited, though, waited until it was nearly too late; Curufin’s face blanched, realizing at last that Maglor was in deadly earnest, and only then did Celegorm move. He caught Maglor from behind, arresting his forward motion; the other hand brought the knife up hard below his sword arm, then jerked it out again before any of them had quite grasped what had happened.

Maglor dropped the sword, staring down at his nerveless fingers—at the deep, bloody puncture beneath his arm—with open confusion. He half-turned to give Celegorm a bewildered look, staggered, righted himself. “No,” he said softly. “That isn’t right...that’s not...that’s not the way it goes…”

Celegorm made an involuntary, airless noise, dropping the knife and stepping back, as if he were the one who had been stabbed. He half-reached towards Maglor, though his hands did not quite close the distance.

Maglor was still murmuring quietly to himself, clutching now at the spot where the knife had gone in, trying uselessly to staunch the bleeding. "It’s all wrong...this is not how the tale goes, there are seventy verses yet...” He stumbled again, then crumpled to his knees, and even Curufin took an involuntary step forward, throwing out a hand as if to catch him.

“No,” Maglor said with sudden certainty, lifting his head even as he slowly slumped down against the doorframe. “It’s all right, it will be all right. Go get Nelyo. It will be all right, he will forgive you. _I_ forgive you. Don’t you see? He will fix it.”

Celegorm and Curufin shared a brief look of frozen panic. Celegorm, who had no fear and was entirely at home in all kinds of gore and viscera, was sick with horror and white as sea-foam; Curufin seemed to have forgotten entirely the box beneath his arm.

When they looked back to Maglor, blood stained the seam of his lips, and desperation crept into his tone. “Get Nelyo,” he said again, his eyes wide now with fear, not confusion. “Please. He will—he can—” a breath that was far too wet— “fix it.” 

And then, quiet and lost this time, his teeth stained red as he spoke— “I want Nelyo.”

Then his voice stilled, for there was no more breath to carry it, ever again.


End file.
